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And now no early friend appears,
To soothe thy mortal groan;
This tale of truth beguile
E'en on thine infant's smile;
Of life's unwritten book,
Faith's oft-imploring look; And as the fair inscription shines, O strengthen thou the holy lines. Mrs. Gilbert,
THE PATH OF THE WIND.
Who can tell from what fetter unbound,
That spirit of storm comes sweeping on? Or who the dark hidden cave hath found,
Where he sleeps when his chains hold him down? He cometh—he cometh-the fierce and free!
He hath floated the flag o’er the field of fight, And swell'd the white sails that gleam on the sea,
Like moonlit clouds in the vault of night. He hath breath'd on the gold orange bough,
On the land where the pale lemon blooms; He hath been where the myrtle trees grow,
And he comes with a thousand perfumes.
He hath howl'd on the high hoary steep,
Where the ice-king in state hath his home; Freezing the tear that the mourner weeps,
Ere it fall on the snow-mantlid tomb. He hath fann'd the zone where the red sun shoots
His fiery rays o'er the burning sands; He hath swept thro' halls where the bittern hoots
'Mid the fall’n pride of wasted lands: He hath crested the billows with foam,
He hath curled the brook's tiny wave,
He hath sigh'd o'er the warrior's grave.
He hath moan'd where the meadow-grass grows, He hath torn up the woods in his ire,
He hath ruffled the leaves of the rose. 0, who can arrest his career ?
Or who his dread power explore ? Bow down all ye creatures, in fear,
And the glory that made him adore. Original.
THE CHILD AND FLOWERS. Hast thou been in the woods with the honey-bee? Hast thou been with the lamb in the pastures free? With the hare through the copses and dingles wild? With the butterfly over the heath, fair child? Yes: the light fall of thy bounding feet Hath not startled the wren from her mossy seat; Yet hast thou rang'd the green forest dells, And brought back a treasure of buds and bells.
Thou know'st not the sweetness, by antique song
Yet shall we mourn, gentle child, for this?
Oh! why amid this hallow'd scene,
Should signs of mortal feud be found ? Why seek with such vain gauds to wean
Our thoughts from holier relics round? More fitting emblems here abound
Of glory's bright, unfading wreath; Conquests, with purer triumphs crown'd;
Proud vict'ries over sin and death! Of these, how many records rise
Before my chasten'd spirit now; Memorials pointing to the skies,
Of Christian battles fought below. What need of yon stern things to shew
That darker deeds have oft been done? Is't not enough for man to know,
He lives but through the blood of One! And thou, mild delegate of God,
Whose words of balm, and guiding light, Would lead us, from earth's drear abode,
To worlds with bliss for ever bright,
What have the spoils of earthly fight
To do with themes 'tis thine to teach ? Faith’s saving grace,-each sacred rite,
Thou know'st to practise as to preach. The blessings of the contrite heart,
Thy bloodless conquests best proclaim : The tears from sinners' eyes that start,
Are meetest records of thy fame! The glory that may grace thy name,
From loftier triumphs sure must spring : The grateful thoughts thy worth may claim,
Trophies like these can never bring. Then, wherefore on this sainted spot,
With peace, and love, and hope imbued, Some vision calm of bliss to blot,
And turn our thoughts to deeds of blood,-
Man wants no trophies here of strife ;
Now infant April joins the spring,
And views the wat’ry sky,
And fears at first to fly.
And hardly dares to smile,
And sunny hours beguile.